


Better

by orphan_account



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Abandonment, Dad Spy, Kinda Fluffy, Mentions of Spy/Scout's Mom, Reminiscing, Remorse, Spy being nice to Scout, The Naked and the Dead, ridiculous description of the tom jones scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 01:13:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20857772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He'd always wished he'd been better to him.After his brush with death on the island during the reclamation of Mann Co., the Spy forces himself to think about the boy he'd abandoned twenty seven years ago.





	Better

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, I hope you enjoy this piece, it's my first published work on AO3. Sorry for the excessive amount of run-ons and commas; it's the writing style I've adopted that works best for me. I should also mention the formatting, as this was originally written in OneNote, which doesn't have an indent feature and requires the spacing of paragraphs in this manner. Perhaps the summary doesn't quite match the content, but I hope it's enough to give the general idea of the story. Thanks for checking it out :^)

He'd always wished he'd been better to him.

It's something minor, something he'd always find nagging the back of his mind every time he's in the same room as him - _I wish I'd been better to you._ The boy's delinquency often draws him out of this thought, but once he settles down it resurfaces, scratching at the back of his throat like a sickness - _I wish I'd been better to you. _Occasionally, in the midst of a firefight, while he stalks a ripe opponent in the guise of an ally, he'd look over the sheep's shoulder and lock onto him, moving across the room on his toes, dancing around men twice his size and toppling them with a blow to the back of the knees; taking a swig of his sugary drink and disappearing into an indiscernible blur of movements, goading his foes to bleed through ammunition on an untouchable target, wearing off just in time for the big guys to come in and clean house. Often these glances would keep him distracted long enough to be discovered, which would often mean his need to flee or his death - the former surprisingly more embarrassing than the latter, because at least death guaranteed him a clean slate to establish false trusts.

Back home, during off hours, he often watches him in the lounge if they happen to be there at the same time. He's usually sprawled on the couch with a bag of chips or some greasy snack perched on his leg, watching whatever show he could find on their few available channels. He usually finishes his snacks in a few minutes, but if whatever he's watching is engaging enough he'll neglect it on his lap, which almost always results in him shifting his leg and tipping it onto the floor, to the dismay of his allies, knowing that he would likely not clean it up, and one of them would be tasked to it.

If he has nothing better to do, he'll usually find someone to pester, and when he's particularly unlucky it's him. Anyone would expect a runner to have good lungs, but no one would expect a runner to use his lungs for much of anything except running; the kid_ talks._ He talks about the shows he's been watching, the creature features and Bond movies, the sports games, even the news if it's compelling enough; he talks about things he did on the battlefield, the enemies he faced singlehandedly, and undoubtedly those stories were bastardized to some degree; he tells stories of his childhood, of delinquency and petty crimes, of the urchins and rats he ran with, inside and outside of school, and if he sidetracks enough he talks about his mom, and how patient she is with him and how much he misses her and her cooking, and sometimes he stops, and when he looks over at him he'll see him turn away and wipe his hand over his face. Those are the moments that he's reminded that his childhood hasn't ended yet, that he never really got the chance to grow up and he probably doesn't even realize it.

There are little things he's constantly noticed, little things that remind him of himself; the boy is boisterous, but receptive, and he catches on to people's moods at a glance and even though he loves to poke fun he knows when to back off. He knows how to distribute his weight on floorboards and rafters alike so that he can navigate an area without so much as shifting the dust in the air, and despite his demeanor he's damn good at being completely silent.

He recalls an interaction with him where he found out about his nighttime runs, the ones he'd go on when he couldn't sleep. He'd gone to the canteen to get a soda because his stomach was disagreeing with him, and he had seen him slip through a side door with a broken alarm on his way back to his room. Out of some curiosity - or, perhaps, some instinct - he followed, and he stood by for a moment as he watched the boy in awe as he bolted across the dirt and vanished into the rocks, only to reemerge from the adjacent passage about thirty seconds later. Absently, he watched him run the circuit for something like twenty minutes before the kid was standing in front of him, sweaty and smelling of earth, asking what he's doing and how long he'd been standing there. He simply told him he hadn't been feeling well and he was getting some air, and the kid asked if that's why he had the soda, because he had "never seen him as much of a pop man", and then he went off about home remedies his mom would use, and finally he yawned and bade him goodnight with a pat on the shoulder, then paused on his way inside and advised him to feel better.

It had been a pleasant interaction, perhaps their most intimate one, and he wishes they could have more like that.

He wishes he could be better to him.

All these thoughts flood back into his head in the moment that he rounds a corner with a board beneath his arm and he sees him laying there, his normally vibrant cheeks pallid, his eyes sunken and tired, his clothes ripped and bloody. Even from a distance he can see the life draining from his body, his eyes growing darker and his skin getting paler. His unwilling accomplice elbows him urgently, and he knows he needs to act, because he's only got so much time left.

He finds himself unable to say the words, so he employs the guise of a Welsh singer he could care less about to say the words for him, and it kills him that the hands that hold his dying child are not his own. He feels his muscles contract briefly and then he's gone, and he spends a moment cradling his body against his chest with some desperation to feel a heartbeat, the escape of a warm breath against his shoulder - but nothing, and as he rests him back down he can't help but feel that he'd failed him.

Wearily he straightens, and he and the bushman stand in silence for a long moment before they proceed to leave, knowing there is nothing left to do, when the boy sputters and shudders back to life, and he's met with an amalgamation of disgust and relief, and the exhaustion of grief is gone from his shoulders. If he had any less restraint he might have kissed him, but he didn't, and if he could use his leg he'd be carrying him. 

That moment forced him to think about the life they could have had together, and he has to force himself to change, regardless of how repulsed he is by the idea of loving him. Care for him? Yes, he could do that. That wasn't difficult, but to _love _him…

He had tried to strip himself of his feelings a long time ago, perhaps around the time the boy was born. He had looked on him only a few times before disappearing; he was small, even for an infant, with little fingers and a little nose, bright blue eyes and pink cheeks. After that he watched him mostly through black and white pictures; watched him grow into a toddler as his hair got longer and his first teeth came in and fell out; watched him playing little league through various images of him clustered with a group of boys who were all bigger than him, all wearing oversized jerseys; watched him reach pubescence, when he grew taller than his mom and broke out in zits and got his license and wore high-waisted flare jeans in his tenth year; watched his entire aura change when he was forced to withdraw during his twelfth year and started mopping floors for some office block to support his mom; watched him leave home for the first time through a picture of him standing proudly outside their duplex with all his worldly possessions tucked into a single duffle bag, his face lively with a bucktoothed smile, his hair buzzed, one hand perched on his hip, the other holding up a one-way plane ticket.

He had watched him grow up, because that was all he could do.

He still has all of those pictures, tucked into the back of a drawer in his cabin, and one he keeps in the inside pocket of his jacket - one his lover had taken of him leaning back in a rocker, holding the small boy against his shoulder, one arm secured under his bottom, the other hand on his back. He was so much younger in that photo, and he wished he could bear the same complacency that he had when he was holding his son like that. The photo used to bring him peace, but now it's only a grim reminder; he looks at himself holding the boy at the beginning of his life and is forced to recall holding him at what would have - perhaps, _should _have - been the end of his life, but some divine forces decided that he wasn't done yet.

He's been training himself to be kinder to him, talking to him as often as he can, mussing his hair when they pass in the hall. When he goes into town, he brings him bubblegum and candy bars, and he knows which ones to get because he asked him what his favorites are; a stick of grape Big Buddy and two 100 Grands. He'd always express sincere gratitude with one of those big bucktoothed grins, and could never grasp why he wouldn't accept the cash for it. 

After the experience on the island, the kid does simmer down, but not to the point of passivity. He's still boisterous and excitable, flagrantly showboating and reeling in his team's attention, but not to the degree he was at before. He tires more easily now, and has fallen into the habit of plopping down on the couch in the lounge and falling asleep, his head hanging over the back. He tends to avoid the lounge most of the time, but now finds himself checking in on a regular basis to see if he's there, and shoves a pillow under his head so his neck doesn't lock up. Most of the time he'll leave after that, but sometimes he'll sit down and consider his face while he sleeps; relatively complacent, his brows often furrowed, focusing on whatever it is that's going on inside his head, the corners of his mouth twitching in some debate or monologue. He finds it endearing, seeing how deep he dreams, but if it's late enough he'll shake him awake and encourage him to go to bed.

He pays more attention to his emotions, and now finds himself encouraging the kid to speak when he feels he's being too quiet. If he needs to, he'll pull him aside and talk to him quietly enough that no one else can hear it, and it's then that he expresses insecurities and anxieties, and as soon as the words pass his lips his shoulders loosen and he's better. He gives him what advice he can, but usually provides nothing more than a pat on the shoulder or, if he's feeling sympathetic enough, an awkward embrace, and he's almost embarrassed at how bad he is at such a simple gesture, though the kid's grateful nonetheless. 

There's one night, though, where he gets a chance to hone his skills, because the kid comes to his door at midnight as a shuddering, red-faced mess, and spends at least three minutes leaning on one of his chairs, allowing his tears to fall and stain the material. Finally he looks up at him and the shadows the firelight casts on his face make him look ghastly, darkening his eyes. He tells him lowly that his mom had called him and told him that she had gotten mugged, and the bastard who jumped her had taken her purse and her jewelry, and she'd had to walk all the way home before she could call for help. He started out furious, listing the ways he would kill the bastard who stole from her, then he was driven to tears when he realized how far he is from her, and that's when he came to his door, not really knowing where else to go, when he started to feel as if he should have been there to defend her, as if she had only gotten hurt because of his failure to keep her safe, and without giving any response he pulls him into a tight embrace and welcomes the tears that stain his jacket. He stands there for what feels like an hour, holding the boy in his arms, swaying him as he dispels his aggression and despair into the shoulder of his suit, clinging to him in desperation and defeat. Finally he takes the kid to his shelf and pours him a glass of liquor, which he downs without an issue, then pats him on the back and walks him back to his room with an arm around his shoulder. He has to beg him to get into bed, and once he submits he tucks him in and sits beside him until he calms down and falls asleep.

He'd called his lover as soon as he got back to his room, and she had insisted that she was fine and she just wanted to make sure her boy was okay, because he had been so upset when she had told him what happened, and he cooed and hushed her over the phone, and promised that he would talk to him in the morning, which he did, and he promptly called his mom back to find some resolve, and he thanked him for convincing him to call her back, and after hanging up he sighed and gave him a look that reminded him so much of his lover; the boy has her same face, her nose and lips and cheekbones, and when he smiled at him he's reminded of the last night he spent with her - a long time ago, but he recalls it in vivid detail, where she had been laying beside him with her hair undone, her face bare of cosmetics, the natural features of her face standing out on her fair skin, and he had kissed her and she had smiled exactly like that…

And suddenly he knew how to love him.


End file.
